Twister The Prodigy
by IHateEverythingAboutYou
Summary: Sherlock, the world's best Twister player, but underdog to the world, uses his abilities alongside John Watson to win against impossible odds in the next tournament. But will Sherlock be able to train his injured partner and outsmart Moriarty? (Possible Johnlock and Mormor)


**~Chapter 1~**

**Returning from the War**

There was a sharp ringing in John's ears as gunshots could be heard all around him. The angry screams and yells of his comrades, and the equally terrifying scream of the enemy. It was hysteria. Total chaos, and he wasn't sure if he could handle it. He ran through the empty alleyway, ducking periodically behind an abandoned food cart. He wondered briefly what it must be like here, when it's peaceful, but he shook the thought away as he looked around the corner. He could see the distorted figures of men running up and down the hillsides. Some dropping, and some dropping others.

He waited a beat longer before moving out to his next cover point. It made his heart pound violently, and he felt the familiar rush of adrenaline. His life was in the balance. He raised his head just above the barricade, but he jumped to the ground as a shot was fired that barely skinned the bags of sand. He tried to control his breathing as the grains rolled gently over his shoulder and any other remnants of the bag blew in the wind.

He blinked, swallowing down his fear as he crawled effortlessly to the other end of the barricade. He peered around the corner, his attacker unaware of his movements. He raised the gun slowly, aiming, and took the shot. His target was down before he knew what hit him. There was another yell, but it feigned extreme annoyance. There was a blunt slam, and he could tell something was happening not far down the line.

John scrambled to get up, realizing he should have been moving by now when he felt a rising pain in his hand. It was a tearing sensation. Like torn muscle, and it sent shivers down his spine. He stood in the open, completely subject to whatever, and whoever decided they had a fair shot. He couldn't move. A voice emanated from somewhere. "John!" He could hear it say, and it was strikingly familiar.

"John! Come on John, move!"

He suddenly felt pulled from his surreal like dream, and he looked to where it was coming from. Behind him, was one of his best mates, Clint, and now he was pointing.

"What the hell are you doing? We'll lose!" He shouted, anger rising in his voice and in his features. It almost seemed he was unnecessarily upset, but like an innocent child John got a grip and moved forward into cover. He put his back to the wall of the building and did his best to calm himself. Clint ran by him, slowing to look at his partner.

"Get your head in the game!" He spat before waiting another moment. "You ok?" He asked, eyes hurried.

"Uh, yeah, no, I'm fine." John replied, eyes startled, panicked still by the odd sensation of his hand. There was no answer as the tall, now white haired man ran past him. He had served for a long time, but he was a good player.

The last John saw of him, he had pushed through the house, and disappeared around an outside corner. John inhaled and exhaled slowly and went to move forward, but just as he did he felt the pain rising in his hand again until finally, something snapped, and there was a loud crashing sound. He then fell to the ground, his eyes red with the world around him.

"Oh my GOD!" The same familiar voice rose from behind him. There was another slam.

"Why wouldn't you move?!" Clint's voice was hoarse as John slipped the battery angrily back into his controller. He looked back at the man, eyes hard.

"Well, can't exactly play when my hand feels like it's broken!" There was a pause. "What do you mean 'broken'?" The white haired man's voice seemed to rise another octave.

"HOW do you BREAK your hand playing Call of Duty?!" He picked up his controller, seemingly about to throw it again.

John winced at the man's voice, but held his ground, stubbornly.

"Maybe because I'm actually playing." He protested. Suddenly the older man lost his shit and stormed out of the room in a huff of anger.

"Ignorance, I fucking swear-…" John could hear his mumbling as he left the room. John nearly threw his hands into the air, but he let it go. He looked down at his hand, moving his thumb slightly as though to test it out. It was so sore, but why, he couldn't figure it out. Maybe he really was just playing too hard. He frowned picking up the controller off his lap, he could hear the team across the hall hooting in their victory, but he tried to ignore it as best he could.

The device was cool in his hands. He moved his fingers around the triggers, and over the toggles. Everything felt fine. Maybe it was a one-time thing. When he tried to move he felt the sting sensation followed by the same sharp pain as before. He gasped dropping the controller again. Just as he did so he heard another shout from behind him.

"See THAT?" Clint hollered. "Take him off the team!"

John blinked wildly turning around to face the now, three, figures in the doorway. Two of which he recognized, the other was watching from further behind. He found his eyes drawn to the man, so odd and precisely watching him. Then his eyes flickered back as the other, whom was not Clint, but the chief of staff, Sandra, approaching him. She frowned deeply at John, hushing Clint.

"Shh, baby." She glanced at him before returning her gaze to the injured soldier. "Pick up the controller." She spoke easily. John swallowed shifting uncomfortably.

"I can't." He answered, eyes enveloped in what might be fear, but he was an expert at hiding it.

Sandra looked on at him expectantly, crossing her arms, and John sighed shortly after. He reached down, lifting the death sentence into his hands, and with a final breath, tried to move the controls. He yelped dropping the controller, looking over at them with furrowed brows. Clint's smug face, and Sandra's neutral one said it all. He was gone, off the team, and relieved of service.

He grabbed his things, and walked out. He noticed that the strange man from earlier was gone, but he shrugged it off. There were no words to be said as he left. Not even Clint had anything to say. He trekked down the long hallway, any and all meaning taken from his life in an instant, it seemed. When he arrived home, from an uneventful cab ride, and an equally uneventful walk, he was exhausted. He slumped into his flat. It was bland and colorless. Much like his mood now. He decided after awhile to go to sleep. The following day he woke up as usual, sat in bed, and stared around at the empty room. It was a cruel joke each time because every following day it was a reminder that he was off the team.

It had been at least a week now, and he was already sick of ordinary, mundane life. At least the tournaments kept things interesting. He breathed heavily lifting himself from his bed. The world was silent, and it bothered him. After a month of the same monotonous lifestyle, he decided to see a Therapist. She was nice, but didn't provide much help. She told him he should write a blog, which documented everything that happened to him while playing CoD. That maybe reliving his traumatic experience would help. He listened, but to no avail. He opened up the blog but wrote nothing. Stubborn as ever. It was useless. Honestly. How the hell was a blog supposed to help him get over the excitement? John stared blankly at the screen and he shut the laptop with a mumble. He got up, and decided for once to get some fresh air. He opened the door, and it squeaked obnoxiously. He really did pay too much to live in the ratty place. Nothing, absolutely nothing seemed to work, but on an army pension from CoD one couldn't afford a proper flat in London.

Finally having locked the door he went on walk, a well-deserved one. His head was locked forward, and he limped awkwardly. He didn't know why though, the pain was in his hand, but it didn't really matter. He didn't feel like seeing another doctor. He passed by a bench, not even noticing the man speaking up to him.

"H-hey, John? John Watson?" John turned sharply to look at the man, and was relieved to find it was his old friend from Gaming School, Mike Stamford. He shook his hand and before he knew it, and even possibly against his will, he was drinking a coffee and having a chat with the man.

"So, heard you were out at Tournament getting beat? What happened?"

"Got beat."

"Oh…" Stamford responded slowly before picking up his head. "Where've you been living then?"

"Well, can't afford much on a CoD pension." John replied, slightly annoyed.

"Why don't you get a flat mate?"

"Come on, who would want me for a flat mate?" John had to repress a chuckle, so he settled for a smile, and Stamford returned the laugh.

"What?"

"Well, it's just you're not the first person to say that to me today."

"Oh, who was it then?"

"Man goes by the name of Sherlock Holmes, I can take you to

see him if you like."

"What does he do?"

"Well, he's a Twister player. Somewhat of a prodigy." Stamford said with a steady, and knowing smirk.


End file.
